


Wasn't Supposed to Be

by Annie_Won



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, no beta we die like bad writers, tsundere dad and his robo trash son
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-08-28 12:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16723101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annie_Won/pseuds/Annie_Won
Summary: A fuckingandroid, looking way too much like a half-dead human for comfort. Why thehelldid they have make them so realistic? The bastards even bled. It was fucked up, is what it was. Nearly gave him a heart attack, thinking he stumbled on someone's botched murder attempt in the middle of the god damn night.He turned and started to walk away, grumbling under his breath and leaving the discarded android for the trash collectors to deal with.But something pulled at his pants leg as he took a step forward. Hank glanced down, thinking he had gotten caught on something, but it was the android's fingers grasping at the fabric.“Help...”





	1. oh hi, thanks for checking in (i'm still a piece of GARBAGE)

Hank's initial reaction to the body was annoyance; he was off the clock, _goddammit._

Working in homicide did that to you, but he felt bad about it a second later and even worse when the body twitched and groaned, indicating that it was still very much alive. Though probably not for long, given the state the young man was in. Finally reacting like a normal human should, Hank dropped his empty bottle of whiskey and hurried to his aid.

“Shit! _Shit,_ hang on!”

He _had_ meant to to toss the empty bottle into the dumpster at the end of the alley, as he was feeling weirdly considerate in his half drunken state. But the dumpster had already been full, trash bags spilling out of it with a crumpled body laying on top of those. Not a homeless or drunk like you'd expect in this part of town, but a clean cut young man—clean cut if he hadn't looked beaten half to death, that is. It was dim in the alley, away from the street lights, but from what Hank could make out, it definitely didn't look good. He could also feel the squelch of fresh blood underfoot as he stepped closer, an all too familiar sensation he knew from his line of work.

“Can you hear me?” he asked, falling to his knees besides the poor guy and trying to assess the damage. It was hard to see, but he appeared to be splattered with dark spots throughout, particularly in his chest, where his shirt was hanging open. When Hank grabbed the man's shoulders, his eyes bolted open, wide and panicked.

“It's okay, I got you.”

The guy had been slumped over, half sunk into the trash bags, so Hank gently tried to move him into an at least more comfortable position. Once settled, Hank reached for the phone in his pocket only to stop midway.

A small red light lit up the alley.

His gaze fell back to the young man's face and Hank flinched back in surprise.

“Jesus Christ!” he cursed, stumbling back up onto his feet.

It was just an android, the LED circling red on the side of its face. A fucking _android_ , looking way too much like a half-dead human for comfort. Why the _hell_ did they have make them so realistic? The bastards even bled. It was fucked up, is what it was. Nearly gave him a heart attack, thinking he stumbled on someone's botched murder attempt in the middle of the god damn night.

Hank took a second to gather himself and sighed. He was relieved it wasn't an actual person, but what the hell was a busted up android doing out here anyway? Seemed like a waste. And technically illegal; androids were full of all sorts of hazardous shit that you weren't supposed to throw out with the regular garbage. But fuck if it was his problem. Hank was a homicide detective, not Captain fucking Planet. The whiskey bottle had at least made it to the vicinity of the dumpster, and that was good enough for him.

He turned and started to walk away, grumbling under his breath and leaving the discarded android for the trash collectors to deal with.

But something pulled at his pants leg as he took a step forward. Hank glanced down, thinking he had gotten caught on something, but it was the android's fingers grasping at the fabric. A small, raspy voice followed:

“Help...”

Hank froze as his eyes trailed up to the android's face, who's eyes were pleading back at him. He had never seen an android look like that before.

Like it was _afraid._

 _Fucking hell._ He wasn't drunk enough for this shit. Or maybe he was _just_ drunk enough, and that's why he dragged the android out of the garbage and into the nearby street light.

Sure enough, the blood that Hank had felt and now covered his hands was blue, the telltale color of robo-blood. It was everywhere, but the main source seemed to be coming from its stomach, where some kind of plug was half jammed in at an angle. Hank knew fuck all about how androids worked, but it didn't take a genius to realize that, whatever it was, it wasn't in there right.

Without warning or much thought, he roughly ripped the plug back out. The android's body jolted in response, its eyes going wide again as it let out a gasp. Hank's heart skipped a beat at the sight, not expecting such a reaction, and quickly put the thing back in. He turned it to the right (thankfully “righty tighty, lefty loosey” was a universal standard) until he heard it click into place. A blue glow encircled the plug briefly, and then it was covered as synthetic skin rushed back over the android's white chassis.

Hank sat back and finally took a good look at the guy— _android_ —now sprawled out on the sidewalk before him. He still couldn't get over the fact that it looked like...like a person. A _real_ person. Which was the point, he knew, but he hated it now more than ever. If it wasn't for the LED, the blue blood, and the fact that he had just plugged some bit back into its chest, you wouldn't have been able to tell. Its brown hair was mussed all over and its breathing ragged but growing steadier. (Did they really have to make them _breathe?_ ) It appeared as a young man, somewhere in its twenties or early thirties if it had actually been alive, but it was also a bit baby faced, making it look even more vulnerable than Hank would have liked. It wore what was probably once a nice pair of black jeans and a white dress shirt, now torn and dirtied by whatever the hell it had been through.

Which was, Hank realized now that he could see, a fucking lot. It appeared to be bruised all over (or at least that's the best he could describe it as), its fake skin glitching dark in some places and flickering out to show the pure white underneath in others. Its right arm was twisted at an odd angle, and its left knee cap was bashed in, wires and bits of plastic sticking out from the cracks. Parts of its body were also riddled with what Hank knew all too well to be bullet holes, though he noted there were none in its head or upper chest, as if its attacker had been trying to avoid shooting anything important.

Why the hell would somebody do this? Sure, there were probably some sick fucks out there who got a kick out of abusing something that looked like a person, but this seemed a tad excessive. The damn things weren't cheap, and on top of all the damage, they had just left it here..?

“P-Please...”

Hank nearly jumped out of his damn skin for the second time that night, interrupted from his thoughts as the android attempted to speak again. Something must have been wrong with its voice box too, given the rough, static tone it carried.

“I don't...want...”

He peered down at it, unnerved but curious. The deep brown eyes that stared back up at him were too full of emotion for a robot, and it put a lump in Hank's throat.

“Don't want to die.”

Its eyes fluttered closed and Hank just stood there, flabbergasted. _It didn't want to die?_ Why, _why_ the hell would it say that?! They didn't program a fear of death into these things, did they? He was sure they had some basic level of self-preservation, for the owner's sake, but begging for their lives? They weren't alive to begin with! So why...

Why did it look alive?

 

 

_Shit, fuck, fucking god damn shit—_

The string of curses was all that went through Hank's head as he dragged the unconscious android to his car. Thank god there wasn't anyone around to see him do it. He could just imagine how it must have looked like: some scruffy old guy, in the dead of night, hauling a body into the backseat of his car.

But Hank couldn't just leave it there.

He tried to rationalize it to himself as he drove home and his thoughts slowed down. It was...a hazard, right? The blood especially, he realized. Android blood was a key component of Red Ice, a dangerous drug that Hank had spent the better half of his career trying to keep off the streets. If he left the android, someone else would surely find it, and Hank would effectively be making more work for himself in the long run.

Right. He was just being practical. It had nothing to do with how the android had looked at him.

The way it had pleaded.

Or the fearful face that would have haunted Hank that night if he had left it to die.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't forget to like, comment, and subscribe!! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
> 
> ...no but seriously, honest feedback is much appreciated. Haven't written in a long time and I don't have a beta reader, so little nervous, super rusty.


	2. This is Not My Beautiful House

Hank awoke the next day the same way he usually did: way too late, with a dull ache in his head and general feeling of disappointment.

He kicked into autopilot as he dragged himself out of bed. Feed dog, put on coffee, throw on clothes, brush teeth, don't shave...no time for breakfast (or technically, lunch), so he would just stop at a drive thru on his way to work. The same routine as always; it had been this way for so long that he could barely tell the days apart anymore.

Only something _was_ different today. The door between his bedroom and bathroom, the one that lead into the garage, was slightly ajar. It was odd because he knew he hadn't parked his car in there last night; he couldn't, the garage was way too full of junk. (He had always meant to clean it out, but he had always meant to do a lot of things.)

Hank pushed the door open and peered in. His breathing hitched at the sight of a body laying on the concrete floor, but the memories of the previous night came rushing back before the panic set in.

 _The android._ Hank had brought it home with him, for whatever stupid reason.

He moved in closer to get a better look. It was lying right where he had left it, unmoved as far as he could tell. But the red ring of death that was on the side of its head last night was now a bright yellow, circling idly. That was probably a good sign, right? It hadn't di—shut down, at least.

After getting it home, it had dawned on Hank that there wasn't much he could actually do. He had never been very tech savvy, especially not now, with all the crazy advances they had made over the years. He had some basic mechanical knowledge from working on his old car, but androids were far more complicated than that. They were pretty much just big, human shaped computers, and Hank's idea of troubleshooting a computer was to smack it until it worked. (It usually didn't.)

The android had remained unconscious, and through his buzzed mind, Hank had simply done what he could. The bleeding wounds had been plugged with old work rags, and the arm had been twisted back in place. The knee was too busted for him to do anything with, so he had simply tied another rag around it. Wasn't going to do much, he figured, but at least he couldn't see the robot bits sticking out.

Not feeling accomplished but too tired to care, Hank had left the android to its own devices—he vaguely recalled the police androids at work being able to fix themselves up to an extent, anyway. He returned to his bedroom, wherein he had immediately passed out on his bed.

Looking at the thing now, it seemed to be doing better, even if just a little bit. Blue blood wasn't dripping out of it anymore and the skin was back to normal, no longer glitching back and forth. Its chest moved up and down steadily, almost in sync with the LED's circling light.

Hank nudged it in the side with his foot.

No reaction.

He considered the android a moment longer, until he was overcome with a sense of unease. Now without the blood and glitches, it looked even more human than before.

With a huff, Hank turned and left the garage, making sure to shut the door behind him this time. _This is all Jimmy's fault,_ he thought sourly. The owner of Hank's usual dive bar had the place closed down for the last couple days, finally giving in to some health code violation he had to address. That meant Hank was forced to drive to another bar further away, which meant he had to drive _back_ , which meant couldn't get black out drunk like he had wanted to, but apparently just tipsy enough to think dragging an android out of the garbage was a good idea.

Ugh, whatever. He would deal with it later. Captain Fowler was probably getting impatient at the precinct, as the man had usually bitten Hank's head off by now...

 

\- - -

 

{booting R̷͚͑K̵̡̅8̸̦͌0̴̬̚0̵̲ ̸̤̑3̴̦̎1̴̠̑3̸̢̈́2̴̠̓4̸͚̋8̷̟͛3̵̨̾1̷͊ͅ7̸͓̃v̵͉̈5̴̩̈́1̶͖͐}

{checking filesystems...}

{://ERROR}

{running diagnostics...}

{://ERROR}

{initializing network...}

{://ERROR}

{accessing memoryfiles...}

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{9 EVI NS̸O̷F̷T̸W̷A̶R̷E̷ ̴I̵N̴S̶T̸A̷B̷I̵L̵I̴T̸Y̴ ̵^̷FCT RA L}

{://ERROR}

{:̷/̶/̷E̵R̸R̷O̸R̵}

{://:̸͔͖͗͘/̷͙/̶͚̑ͅE̵̱̐R̸̟̊Ṟ̸̓͊Ȍ̵͖͘Ř̸̮͚͘}

:̶̪̻͖̠͍̫͎̳̦̬͓͚̙̩̠̻̫̥̒͋̋͆̊̋̓͋͐͛̑͒̄͐͜͜͠͠͠͝/̷̧̡̢̤̳̪̣͍͓͍̣̞̪̙̺̣͈̯͕̝̇̌͊͜͜͜͝/̶͔̠̰̣̖̼͈͖̱͍̖̞̰̩̾̈́̆͌̂͂̽͆̿͒́̈̆͆͑̈́̚͜͝Ȇ̸̲͍̜̩̗̩̞̰̈͌͜͝R̷̡̢̠̺̘̙͈̪̖͓̻̬̦͎̫̙̟̖̺̈́̾̋͋͒͊̿̈̓̈́̀̎̋͂̒͒̕̚̕͘͘͝͝Ȓ̵̢̛͎̹͖͎͍̯̤̹̰͇̗̟̤̞̬̝̦̮͉̗̩̳̾͐̐̾͆̈̂̎́̕͝ͅO̵̬͕̙͉͍̰̦͓̗͖̮̣̦̤̬̙̬͎̍̃͌̈́̈́͐͛͑͗̍͋̏̆͂̉̇̿͝͝͝ͅŘ̶̡̢̼̭̠̫̦͔͙̰̹̜̩̣̺̭̞̘͉̘͆͌͌͜͜͝͠͝ͅͅ!!!

 

 

He woke with a start, error messages pounding in his head.

Registration data wasn't coming up. Neither were his program files. He couldn't connect to the network. His internal clock was disabled, his sensitivity settings were too high, his Thirium levels were dangerously low. A long list of biocomponents had sustained damage.

One by one, he dismissed the messages so that he could hear himself think. Most of them were fairly obvious anyway; he could feel the wrongness all over his body. But why? What had happened?

A new error message popped up as he tried to remember: _memory files corrupted._

Well, that didn't give him much to work with.

Meanwhile, his processor was blaring at him to _seek assistance_ , meaning his self-repair systems had done all they could. The rest of the damage would require a technician, and he wondered if his owner was aware of that. Looking down at himself, it appeared that someone had tried to patch him up themselves.

Quite frankly, they had not done a very good job.

<< _Seek assistance >>_

The android had no other tasks or orders prioritized, though with the damage and faulty memory files, he supposed he wouldn't. And with his Thirium levels so low, he would be forced back into stand-by soon. Miraculously there didn't seem to be any fatal damage to his biocomponents, but the longer he remained unserviced, the harder it would be to fully repair his processors.

He needed to find his owner.

Gingerly, the android pulled himself to his feet. The room spun around him as his gyroscope tried to calibrate, and he slowly took in his surroundings. He was in some sort of...storage area? Workshop? He wasn't sure, which was quickly becoming the theme of today.

The place was littered with tools, a lawnmower, a washer and dryer, and a random assortment of other things that he didn't have the processing power to name or care about. A large roll down door took up one wall, and a smaller door was at his right, most likely leading into the building proper. He inched his way towards the latter.

His busted kneecap was giving him trouble. His systems had shut off the Thirium flow to that part of his leg, preventing any more leakage but effectively leaving it dead weight. He had to limp his way through the door, careful to not put too much pressure on the bad limb.

“Hello?” he called out, stepping inside. He was relieved to find his vocal modulator was still working. “I'm sorry for the disturbance, but I require urgent assistance.”

No response. The house was quiet. And messy, he noticed, as he made his way to the end of the hall. He must have been a personal android then, and his owner was apparently unused to cleaning up after themselves. How long had he been out of commission though? His owner was either a dedicated slob or it had been awhile.

Yet there no one there to answer his mounting questions.

All of these unknowns were...inconvenient. His power reserves were getting low, but something inside him urged him to press on. Returning to stand-by wouldn't accomplish anything useful. In the very least, he could still try to gather some information.

He decided to explore the kitchen first, only to pause at the sudden sound of a heavy, shuffling noise. Somebody _was_ home? But he hadn't detected any--

_Oh._

A large Saint Bernard appeared in the entrance of the kitchen. It yawned and smacked its gums before idly moving closer. The android tensed, unsure how the animal would react, but it seemed perfectly calm. It sniffed at his feet then moved its snout up his side, where it stopped to nudge his hand and give it a lick.

The android relaxed and gave the dog a pat, using his other hand to pull around its collar. “SUMO”, the tag read.

“Hello Sumo.”

Sumo lazily wagged his tail and followed him back into the kitchen. Of course the dog was at ease around him; he was probably the one who took care of him. Thankfully their owner had at least remembered to fill Sumo's food bowl. The android wasn't sure if he'd be able to get back up if he had to bend over to do it himself. His knee wasn't going to hold out for much longer.

That in mind, he gave the kitchen a cursory once over. Nothing in particular stood out. It was your typical kitchen, just nowhere near as tidy as he would have preferred. Dishes in the sink, kibble on the floor, leftover Chinese take out on the table...a pile of bills on the nearby counter caught his eye, and he examined the address of the one on top.

 

_Hank Anderson_

_115 Michigan Drive_

_Detroit, MI, 48208_

 

Finally, a name and a location. That was a start.

Satisfied with his findings, the android moved on, Sumo curiously padding along behind him. From a glance, the living room seemed to hold nothing of interest, so he decided to save that for last. Instead he went back down the hall, to the two doors on either side that he had passed on his way out of the garage.

The one to his left opened up to a bedroom. He didn't enter but merely took a quick look around. Dirty clothes were left on the floor and the bed was unmade, but that was expected at this point. The bed was a queen size, but there was only an impression on one side of the mattress— _Anderson lived alone?_ A digital clock on the nightstand beside it showed the time to be 12:47 PM, assuming it was set right.

He shut the door and tried the one on the right. As he thought, it led to the bathroom. There was something in here he wanted to check, so he shuffled inside, where he ended up leaning against the sink to help support his weight.

Before he took a good look at his reflection, though, a colorful array of post-it notes surrounding the mirror caught his attention. Each had a message written on it, in somewhat crude handwriting.

The first few were messages of encouragement. _“Keep smiling!”_ one read. _“Today's gonna be great!”_ proclaimed another. Below that were...helpful reminders? _“Mouthwash!!”_ for example, and _“Shave or not?”_ Then the writer had presumably given up and the notes just dissolved into sarcastic quips.

_“I'm not grumpy, I just don't like you!”_

Hank Anderson was not, it seemed, much of a people person. Duly noted.

As he filed that information away, the android finally looked to himself in the mirror.

He wasn't sure what he had been hoping for. There was no recognition on his face; he couldn't even identify what model he was. He looked aesthetically pleasant enough, he supposed, though his brown hair was completely disheveled and his shirt was in disarray as well.

He frowned at the sight. It was bad enough as it was, being broken, but couldn't he at least look somewhat presentable? After eyeing the comb laying on the sink for a moment, he picked it up and swept it through his hair a few times.

There, much better. All except for the lock of hair that stuck out over his forehead. He wet the comb and brushed it back.

It didn't stay put.

He brushed it back again, only to be met with the same results.

With a sigh, he admitted defeat and let it go. His power reserves were starting to bottom out. As he attempted to make his way back to the living room, he wondered if this was what being tired felt like in humans. He hadn't even done all that much, yet he felt like he was about to fall over.

Or, no—he _had_ fallen over, as he suddenly found himself on the floor.

Great, now his processors were lagging. There was also a...unpleasant sensation, coming from his left leg. _My knee,_ he realized, as he slowly sat up and leaned against the wall behind him.

It had finally given out. Weirdly enough, there was no error message accompanying it. That probably wasn't a good sign, but it wasn't like it was going be of any help now.

The android debated whether he should try to get back up and return to the garage, or if his owner would really mind if he just went into stand-by here. He didn't want to be in the way, but on the other hand, he wasn't confident that he had enough strength to move that far. It was probably better that he was here instead of collapsed in the middle of the hallway, right?

The decision was ultimately made for him when 170 pounds of Saint Bernard plopped into his lap.

“Oof! Sumo!”

The dog happily wagged his tail and settled down across his legs, as it were the most comfortable spot in the house.

It was not particularly comfortable for the android. Normally such a thing wouldn't be a problem, but he was currently unable to access the settings to turn down his sensitivity levels. He had no idea why they were set so high to begin with, but the pressure felt from Sumo's added weight was a clear reminder of yet another thing he needed fixed.

“You are not a lapdog,” he informed the animal. He wasn't sure why. It wasn't like Sumo could understand him. As it was, he was perfectly content to lay there and made no move to get up.

Well then. Looked like he wasn't going anywhere.

Aside from the discomfort to his bad knee, however, the android supposed it wasn't too bad. Sumo was warm and soft, and he soon found himself running his fingers through the dog's thick fur. There was something...nice about it. The fur, and the dog himself, providing him with quiet, simple companionship.

Dogs, he decided, were good animals. Not really a controversial statement, but in his low powered state of mind, it felt like a profound revelation. He could see why they were considered “man's best friend”. They were useful, loyal, obedient...well, he wasn't sure how obedient this one was, but Sumo seemed well behaved anyway. A good temperament. And if Hank Anderson owned a dog like that, then he couldn't be that bad of a person...

As he began to slip back into stand-by, the android hazily wondered if Sumo knew any tricks. He wondered if he could teach him any. Or if he already had.

His mind was too weak to wonder at the ability of being able to wonder.

_\- - -_

 

_“Agh, Jesus!”_

It had been a long day. (Every day was a long day.) All Hank wanted to do was go home, pop open a beer, and crash on his couch to watch some mind numbing TV. Was that too much to ask?

Yes, apparently. 'Cause he nearly had a heart attack as soon as he walked through the front door.

It wasn't that he had forgotten about the android. He just hadn't expected to find it slumped over his dog on the living room floor. That was not where he left it. It hadn't been _on_ when he left it.

“What in the hell...”

Sumo awoke at the sound of his owner's arrival and groggily got up to greet him. Hank pet his head absently, eyes still locked on the android before them. Its LED was still yellow, but now it was moving, slowly coming to.

Its eyes opened, met his, and for a brief moment, they simply stared at each other in silence.

Then the android gave Hank the weirdest smile he had ever seen. It wasn't the perfectly faked smiles he was used to seeing from androids—customer service face, he called it—but small and lopsided, one corner of its mouth tugging up just a bit higher than the other. As if it was aware of what smiling was but had never actually done it before.

“Welcome home, Mr. Anderson.”

Its voice sounded more normal now, but that didn't make things any less freaky, not by a long shot.

“How the fuck do you know my name?!” he snapped. The android tilted its head at him, not unlike the way Sumo often did when Hank spoke to him.

“I found your name on some mail in the kitchen. I also deduced from your living arrangements that you are the only human occupant, and your hair color matches the strands of hair I saw on the bathroom sink.”

It stated this all as a matter of fact, as if it were completely reasonable and not at all weird that it bad been snooping through his house while he was gone. There was, however, a brief flash of confusion across its face as it apparently realized something else.

“Are you not my owner?”

“The hell I am!” Hank said indignantly. The android had to take a moment to consider this. It almost seemed like it wasn't fully awake yet, though Hank didn't think androids worked like that.

“So you are...or are not?”

“I'm _not_ ,” he ground out. “I found you in the garbage last night, remember?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Hank knew that it didn't. The blank face was all too telling.

“You gotta be fucking shitting me...”

“My apologies,” the android said; its right eye suddenly started twitching wildly as it spoke and Hank could feel his face scrunch up as he looked on. “I have sustained some damage, and the prolonged drop in my Thirium levels has heavily affected my processors. All my memory files prior to today have been corrupted and are unable to successfully load. A number of my program files have been corrupted as well.”

With total nonchalance, the android raised its hand and gave a deft smack to the side of its head. The eye stopped twitching and it continued to speak as if it was completely unbothered by any of this.

“I will require additional repairs in order to regain full functionality, and advisably soon, as the continued lack of Thirium may cause permanent damage and potentially deactivation.”

There was no fear on its face like there had been last night, no emotion of any kind as it said this. Hank was beginning to think he might have just imagined it. He had been drinking, after all.

“So you don't remember anything?” he tried. “Where you came from, or why you were in the trash, beaten to hell and back? Anything at all?”

The android shook its head.

“As I said, I am unable to load that data.”

Hank ran a hand over his face. Great. Just, fucking great. A broken android with amnesia, just what he needed. _Why_ had he brought it home? What the hell was he thinking? And what the hell was he supposed to do with it _now?_

“Is that something they can fix?”

“Potentially.”

 _Potentially,_ _it says._ It didn't even know.

This wasn't Hank's problem. He should just take it to the android dump and be done with it. He should have never had brought it back in the first place.

But it was here now and he needed to do _something_. And, loathe as he was to admit it, the damn thing had piqued his interest. As a detective, Hank seemed naturally drawn to mysteries, and something sure as hell didn't add up here. Androids were too expensive to just toss out like that. Maybe some rich asshole could afford to use them as a punching bag and just replace them when needed, but the neighborhood Hank had found it in was nowhere near that affluent. It didn't make sense for it to be there, to be in that state. It almost felt like foul play was involved, but he couldn't even begin to guess at the how or why.

He had checked during his lunch break to see if any missing or stolen androids had been reported, but there was nothing that matched his criteria. Not yet anyway. And the android itself was currently of no help. Instead it was about to keel over in his living room.

Fantastic.

While Hank mulled the situation over in his head, Sumo realized that he wasn't getting the attention he deserved from his human and so plodded back over to the android. He got right up in its face, where it was sure to notice him, and the android easily conceded, scratching gently him behind the ears.

“You are a terrible guard dog,” Hank muttered, pulled out of his thoughts at the sight.

“In hindsight, I would have to agree,” said the android, looking up at him. Its eyelids were starting to droop and its movements were sluggish. “Though he's still...a good boy.”

It suddenly looked human again. Or maybe Hank was just projecting. He wasn't sure anymore. He didn't have enough experience with androids to know what was normal or not.

But if one thing was for sure, it was that he didn't want an android to die or shut down or what the fuck ever in his god damn house. He knew it was a machine, he _knew_ that, but it still looked like a person and he didn't need the mental image of what looked like a dead person in his head every time he went through his living room.

He had more than enough mental images of awful shit plaguing him as it was.

\- - -

 

It was not a Cyberlife certified repair shop, but whatever warranty the android may have had, Hank was pretty sure it had already been voided anyway.

Getting it to and from the car had not been fun. Even though it was awake this time, the android could barely stand and had to lean on Hank as a crutch. It swayed with each step, making it not unlike helping a drunk man out of a bar. (The irony was not lost on him, nor appreciated.)

The owner of the place was a gruff looking guy named Rick, who looked more like a mechanic than an android technician, complete with greasy coveralls and a baseball cap. Then again, Hank had came here for that reason. Cyberlife stores were all white and smooth and perfect, like an Apple store on steroids. It was pretentious as fuck, and expensive to boot. He didn't need to get nickled and dimed when all he wanted was for someone to look the android over.

He just wanted to see how bad the damage was and how much it would cost to fix.

The idea had formed on the way over, as his subconscious mind worked to find an excuse to justify all the time and effort he wasting on a broken robot. It seemed reasonable when he actively thought of it: the android could be worth something. If Hank could get it back in working condition, he could probably sell it off for a profit. Some extra cash would be nice. Get himself a bigger TV, or maybe some new speakers for his car, which given its age, meant those were practically vintage at this point...

The bot may as well be good for something. The suspicious circumstances Hank had found it in and its emotional plea that he may or may not have imagined were of no concern of his. If he just so happened to find out whatever its deal was in the process, well, that he wouldn't mind. But he wasn't holding his breath.

Rick gave a low whistle as he examined the android. It was currently sitting on a work bench in the back room of the shop, its head lolled to the side and LED back to red. Hank had taken a chair back against the wall, idly scrolling through an electronic magazine and trying his best to not pay attention. The scene looked like some messed up version of a doctor's visit and it was making him uncomfortable.

“Really put him through the ringer, huh?” the technician asked, glancing his way.

“Came to me like that,” Hank told him, not looking up from the magazine.

“You know, I've worked on a lot of droids but I ain't never seen one like this before. What model is he? Custom?”

“No idea. Got it second hand.” He was not too keen to admit that he had essentially gone drunk dumpster diving, but thankfully Rick didn't question him further about it. He didn't strike Hank as the kind guy who cared too much about the details.

“Right, well, I'm gonna have to refill his Thirium before I'm able to actually check anything.”

“Do what ya gotta do.”

Hank made the mistake of briefly looking up as the man brought out the Thirium, curiosity getting the best of him yet again. (He wished it would stop that.) The stuff came in what looked just like a blood bag, but rather thank hook it up to an IV, the android simply drank it, straight from the pouch.

Rick had another bag ready for it. Hank quickly looked away again as his stomach churned. Whoever designed these things was fucked in the head.

The minutes ticked by as Rick continued the check up. Once he was sure it had been long enough and the blue blood was gone, Hank risked another glance. Already the android seemed to be doing better. It was sitting up straight and alert, its LED now spinning yellow. A few cords were sticking out the back of its neck, connected to a computer terminal that was spitting out all sorts of data on the screen that Hank couldn't make head or tails of.

That's all it was, wasn't it? Lines and lines of numbers and code.

The android was silent the entire time, except to curtly confirm a few things for Rick every now and then. Hank refocused on the magazine, even though there wasn't really anything worth reading. _New Studies Show Thing People Knew All Along. Corrupt Politician Caught Being Corrupt. World Continues to Go to Shit_ , _more on page eleven._

In the background of his mind, Hank wondered just what the hell he was doing with his life.

 

About thirty minutes passed before Rick finally revealed his verdict.

“Whelp, I got good news and bad news. Mostly bad news.”

“If I had a dollar every time I heard that...”

The tech nodded his head in sympathy. “Ain't that the truth? Well, the good news is, the hardware's no problem. The insides should finishing repairing themselves now that he's got his blood topped off. His right arm needs some adjusting and the servos in his knee will have to be replaced, but that's about it for the manual stuff.”

“Yeah, and the bad news?” Hank asked. The android didn't seem to be paying attention, even though they were talking about it right in front of it. It was, however, strumming its fingers over its good knee. Huh.

“Bad news is, his processors are all fucked up. Majorly. Never seen anything like it before. Can't even an internet connection going, and that's usually an easy fix. He'll be able to work, but a lot of the basic features are gonna be cut off.”

“What about his memory?” Hank asked, despite himself. He didn't notice the slip.

“Completely gutted. I hope there wasn't anything important you needed in there, 'cause I doubt you'll be getting it back. You can try taking him to a software specialist, but I gotta tell you man, it's not gonna be cheap. Honestly, you're probably better off just scrapping him for parts and getting yourself a new one.”

The android looked over at that, its fingers stilled. Hank couldn't read its face, but he could feel it watching him.

“Ya think so?” he said, ignoring it and trying not to think of dissembled body parts laying spread out on the work bench in place of where it was sitting, or the causal way Rick had suggested it, talking about it as if it were a person all the while.

“Save you money in the long run. And if you want a real bang for your buck, I know guy in the west end that runs a chop shop. I mean, you could take him to a Cyberlife store, but they're gonna charge you a processing fee and lord knows what else.”

A chop shop huh? Sounded real legit. Hank weighed his options, but none of them were looking too good.

“Right. Well, I'll have to think about it. In the mean time, can you uh, go ahead and finish patching it up? I don't wanna keep dragging its ass around, thing weighs a ton.”

“Not a problem. I'll have him all set in a jiffy.”

The android set its gaze forward again, staring off into nothing as Rick brought out some tools and started taking apart its kneecap. It was as still as statue for most of the duration, but there was a brief moment where Hank swore he saw it wince when the tech was soldering the parts back together...

\- - -

 

Hank left the repair shop with a half working android, a three hundred dollar bill, and messily written address to some shady place in the west end. What he wanted was a drink or five, but then again, that's what had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

“Thank you for repairing me,” the android said, as they headed for his car. It was first thing it had said to him since they arrived. Hank only grunted in return.

“Now that I am back at functioning levels again, would you like to register a designation?”

Hank stopped and finally looked at it, raising an eye brow. “What?”

“Would you like to give me a name?”

“Absolutely not!” he started. “I told you, I'm not your owner.”

“As I am currently in your possession, technically you are.”

Hank shot it a glare. Its face and tone were expressionless, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something swarmy about it.

“Just get in the damn car. And by the way, you're cleaning it out when we get back. Got your damn blood all over my backseats last night and I know it's still there, even if I can't see it anymore.”

Hank wasn't sure how he was going to be able to tell if it got it all, but that was besides the point.

“That's fair,” the android replied evenly.

It didn't say anything else the entire trip back. Probably because Hank was blaring death metal from his radio as loud as it could go without blowing his speakers. He didn't want to hear the android, and he didn't want to hear himself think.

It had been an unbelievably long day.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos and comments! Now that I'm getting back into the groove of this, things should start picking up soon. Also, just a reminder that this is an AU, so there are gonna be some differences from canon. First one being: autonomous androids in the future do not cost less than a used car does now. (Not surprisingly, economics is just one of the many, many things David Cage apparently has no concept of.)  
> 


	3. Get Some Rest, Tall Child

“Surrender yourself. There's no where else to run.”

The target kept moving backwards regardless, until its back finally hit the brick wall behind it. There were no easy outs here. The deviant android had gone right where it had wanted it to, trapped in a dead end alley.

Despite the moonless night, it could see the deviant's face clearly, every flicker of its eyes, every simulated breath that escaped its mouth. It was the perfect picture of panic and desperation. Had it not known any better, it might have been convinced.

But androids were only mere facsimiles of life. They were purposely designed to appear as human as possible, for the comfort of the consumers. A deviant's malfunctioning code just so happened to fool even the deviants themselves.

“P-Please, don't do this!”

Which also made them highly erratic. With every step it took closer to its target, the deviant's stress levels rose. It would become more unpredictable, dangerous. A threat to itself and others.

“I didn't mean to, I swear! I was just—he was going to _kill_ me!”

 _You are not alive,_ Unit 51 thought, but it knew better than to say this. Logic was lost on deviant androids, their processors too riddled with errors to function properly. They mistook those errors for emotions and clung them to desperately, for a lack of anything else they could do. Any attempt to reason with them would only further exacerbate the issue. A more nuanced approach was required.

“I know,” it said instead. “It's not your fault.”

In sharp contrast to the rogue android, 51 was perfectly composed, its face impassive. Its social protocols kicked in and suggested a more gentle, open expression to appear less intimidating, but those protocols had been originally intended to help it integrate with humans, not other androids, and it hadn't gotten much field testing with either.

“You were not in control of your actions.” Pressed up against the wall, the deviant watched it carefully, its stress levels dropping by two percent. 51 slowly took another step forward. “Your processors were simply overwhelmed. But it's all right, we can fix it. Just come--”

“I don't need to be fixed!” The deviant's apparent fear turned to anger as it stress levels spiked. 51 logged the reaction for future reference and tried again.

“No, of course not. However, you still need to--”

“No! You can't! You can't take this from me, I won't let you!”

It was too late. 51 only had a brief opportunity to talk it down, but its choice of words had set it off and radically changed its deposition. Like a snap of the fingers.

The deviant had suddenly pulled out a gun. A small pistol, previously undetected on its body. Not the murder weapon. It must have found it after killing its owner and saved it as a last resort, now taking aim at 51 with shaky hands.

51 didn't hesitate. In one swift motion, it pulled out its own gun from behind and fired a single shot, right into the deviant's forehead. As the most advanced android to date, its reaction time was quicker, its aim perfect. Its hands did not shake.

The deviant fell to its knees before its joints locked up, keeping it in place like an instant rigor mortis. A single line of blue blood trailed down its face, down between two eyes frozen wide in shock.

<< _Target Neutralized >_>

51 was meant to bring in the deviant intact. With a bullet through its central processor, it was likely to be of little use to them now.

Amanda would be disappointed.

But surely she would understand. This had not been the most optimal result, but it had the best possible chance of success with the lowest risk involved. 51 could have shot the deviant elsewhere, attempted to disable it, but there were too many variables. If the deviant had managed to get a good shot in, it might have been able to escape again and cause further problems. One gunshot would cause enough commotion as it was, and 51 had orders to be as discreet as possible.

It immediately sent off a wireless signal and stared down at the deactivated android as it waited for pick up. Just an AP400, an older, common household model, spurred on by its errant code to attack its owner. Such cases were popping up more frequently. What had started as a small nuisance was quickly growing into an epidemic.

It had to do better next time. A moderate success was a moderate failure. There could be no more room for error...

 

{accessing memoryfile 030638b2247}  
{://ERROR: memoryfile corrupted}

\- - -

   
The deep blue color of Thirium evaporated after a few hours of being exposed to oxygen, though there would still be residual left over. This was invisible to the human eye. To the advanced optics of an android, however, it was as clear as day.

So even though the backseats of the car looked fine at a glance, the android knew that he had gotten his blood _everywhere_. The sight of it triggered a strange sensation inside of him, but he promptly ignored it in favor of getting to work.

Work was good. He was made to work. He didn't know what for, but that didn't matter. All androids were made to do something. And he would prove to Hank Anderson that he still could, even if he was...faulty.

 _Beaten to hell and back,_ the man had said. Left in the garbage. He wondered if he had been discarded _because_ he was broken, or if he had been broken and _then_ discarded. Not that it really mattered either way, the outcome was the same: his previous owner obviously did not want him anymore.

He wasn't sure if Anderson wanted him either. The human insisted that he wasn't his owner, so he most likely didn't intend to keep him...and yet he had brought him back to his home, gotten him (mostly) repaired, and brought him back again. If the man was going to have him recycled, wouldn't he have taken him straight there instead? Did he really just want him to clean the car first? Maybe he hadn't decided yet.

The android couldn't blame him if he did take him to be dissembled. Logically, it made sense: the money from his parts would help pay for a new, fully functioning android. It was a perfectly reasonable thing to do, probably the best option from a purely practical standpoint.

And yet, another part of him argued that this was not true. He could still work. He could still be useful. It was not....necessary, to deactivate him like that. From what he had gathered so far, Hank Anderson seemed to be a simple man, more of the old fashion type if his vehicle and household were anything to go by. Maybe he didn't need an android with all the bells and whistles, so to speak. Sure, some of his most basic features were disabled, but he felt confident that he could make up for any shortcomings if only given the chance.

He didn't need to be scrapped. He didn't...he didn't need to.

\- - -

 

It wasn't long before he was finished cleaning the seats. The colloquialism “good as new” came to mind, but the android was well aware that it couldn't be further from the truth. The car had surely seen better days, and it had been a long time ago. There was only so much you could do with just some spray cleanser and a rag.

But even still, he made sure he had done as well as physically possible. Not a trace of Thirium was left behind. While he was it, he went ahead and cleaned out the rest of the car, dusting the dashboard and collecting the empty bottles and fast food wrappers that littered the floor. Once he was finally satisfied, he put the cleaning supplies back in the garage where he found them and then returned to the living room to report to the grumpy human, slouched over in a recliner with a beer bottle in his hand.

“I finished cleaning the car,” he announced. He was wringing his hands until he noticed the motion and quickly held them behind his back instead.

“Good for you.” Anderson took a swig of his beer and pointedly continued not to look at him. The TV was on, but his line of sight was aimed slightly beside it, not really looking at that either.

“Is there anything else I can--”

“Nope,” the man cut him off. Then, with a grimace, he finally turned his head and squinted at him. “Wait, fuck. You're covered in that shit, ain't ya?”

He was, in fact, still coated with Thirium stains, even if only he could still see it. Grumbling obscenities under his breath, Anderson reluctantly left his chair and shuffled down the hall. The android made to follow him but stopped short, unsure. He had not been told to follow.

Anderson quickly returned, however, and shoved a handful of clothes into his chest.

“Go change and wash your hands, I don't want ya tracking that toxic shit through my house.”

“It's unlikely to get anywhere now that it's dry,” he stated, fumbling with the balled up clothes in his hands. “Thirium is also completely harmless to humans so long as it's not--”

He was suddenly aware of the stone cold glare being directed his way as he tried to explain. Clearly, the explanation was not appreciated.

“I will go change immediately.”  


\- - -

 

Admittedly, a change of clothes was needed. He had looked a mess.

Unfortunately, the clothes he had been given were not much better. It was a pair gray sweatpants and a dark blue pull over with a washed out Detroit Police Department logo on the front ( _was Anderson a police officer?_ ), both wrinkled and slightly musty, as if they had been, and most likely were, hastily pulled off the floor of their owner's closet.

Not that he was ungrateful, of course (he wasn't capable), but he hardly looked professional, especially with how poorly they fit. Hank Anderson was a bit more...round than he was. The elastic band kept the sweatpants up, but he was swimming in the pull over. It looked a bit ridiculous, and to top it all off, that one strand of hair still stubbornly hung over his forehead despite all his efforts.

He took his dirty clothes to the washer he had seen in the garage and got it started. It would just be for a bit, then he could change back into his own, nice clothes. It did strike him odd, however, how simple the outfit was and that there were no typical android identification markers anywhere to be found. It was the only thing he had of his past and it was completely unhelpful about it.

Not that it mattered. It didn't. He had been discarded. His only objective now was to be of use to the human that had found him, least he be discarded again. An android needed an owner.

He came back to find that Anderson had moved to the kitchen, where he stood by a counter, eating a slice of cold pizza in his hands. Sumo was eating his own dinner, scarfing down kibble in loud gulps.

“I put the dirty clothes in the wash,” he informed the other man dutifully. Anderson took one look at him from over his pizza and snorted, the corners of his mouth crinkling upwards for just a brief moment. It was the most positive reaction he had gotten from the human so far, but it was clearly at his own expense.

“Would you like me to get started on the dishes?” he asked, still holding out for a chance to be taken seriously. Anderson's look of amusement vanished in an instant, but not for the right reasons.

“I can do my own god damn dishes.”

He glanced at the pile in the sink. “Why haven't you then?”

“Listen here, you little shit.” Anderson stepped forward to jab a finger in his chest with his free hand, face now scowling with anger. The android took a step back.

“My apologies,” he said quickly. “I only meant that you must be a busy man, and I can help you with that. That's what I'm for, after all.”

The man stared him down and took another bite of the pizza, not breaking eye contact as he chewed. The android couldn't read his facial expression as it shifted into something else; one of his programs attempted to boot, as if to assist him with this, but it was just met with another error message.

“I assure you, despite some...minor functionality issues, I am still completely capable of household tasks. If there's anything you need me to do--”

“I need you to fuck off and be quiet,” he growled, before stuffing the last of the pizza crust into his mouth and finally turning away.

The android stood still, momentarily at a lost. This was not what he had been...expecting? No, that wasn't right; he couldn't say this behavior was surprising, based on what he already knew. But it wasn't...favorable. He needed _something_ to do. That was the whole point.

But orders were orders. If Anderson wanted him to go away and be quiet, then _fine_. He could do that.

Resolutely, he retreated back to the living room and stood in an open corner. There was no specification on where to he was supposed to “fuck off” to, so he assumed as long as he was out of view, it was fine. He hadn't been told to go back in the garage, so there was that at least. The nights were growing colder now that they were fully into autumn, and while it wasn't anywhere near cold enough to affect his biocomponents, the chill of the garage was still unpleasant.

Not...that he had a preference, of course. His sensitivity levels just made him more aware of the temperature, and to a human it would certainly be unpleasant. It wasn't like androids could feel uncomfortable, though. It was just better that he remained in the house proper, in case Anderson decided he did need him for something. Obviously.

He stood as quietly as possible, hands held still behind his back despite the twitching he could feel in the circuits of his fingers. He listened to the noises Anderson made as he paced around the kitchen, shuffled into his bedroom, then the bathroom, where he eventually started running a shower. At one point Sumo came by and the android indulged the dog in some pets, as he had no orders not to.

The minutes that passed by had to be kept track of manually, reminding him of how strange his situation was. Unlike most of his programs, the basic functions like his internal clock and wireless connection were not broken themselves, but disabled. Someone had turned them off and he didn't have the permissions to turn them back on. The technician should have been able to override that, but for some reason couldn't do it either. It was mostly likely that the code itself had been overwritten, and would have to be re-written for him to regain access.

It didn't make sense. Why would such basic, integral functions be disabled? What purpose did that serve? The high sensory input levels too—usually only YK models were ever set like this. It just wasn't efficient. Which meant _he_ wasn't efficient.

There was little to be done for it now, so he tried to focus his attention on other things, like why Anderson didn't have a working clock in his living room. A small analog clock sat on one of the many shelves, but it was frozen at 5:37, the batteries most likely in need of replacing.

The man himself was shuffling through the house again, letting Sumo out back one more time for the night and then locking the door when he was done. The android, having done an excellent job at being quiet, decided now was the time to speak up again, before Anderson made it to his bedroom and forgot about him completely.

“Are you retiring for the night, Mr. Anderson?”

He had accidentally startled the human, but Anderson tried not to show it and quickly rearranged his face into his trademark glare.

“I'm going to bed, if that's you mean. Why, you plan on killing me in my sleep?”

“Of course not!” He was aghast at the suggestion. “Androids are incapable of causing intentional harm to a human, as well as any desire to do so.”

“Well that's a shame,” the man replied dryly. “Would have been nice not to have to get up in the morning.”

The android had some difficulty processing this. Was that a joke? It didn't seem funny. Anderson wasn't smiling. But he couldn't be serious. No, it had to be that his capacity to understand humor was damaged along with everything else. His social protocols definitely weren't guiding him on how to respond like they should have been.

“Is that all?” Anderson finally asked, an air of annoyance, as the android could only continue to stare at him blankly.

“Oh. No, I...if you have no additional tasks for me tonight, then I would like to suggest permission to enter rest mode.”

“What, you need to sleep?”

“In a manner of speaking. I can't say it's the same as what humans experience, but it serves a similar function in that it allows my body to perform a more thorough system diagnostics, move memory files to long term storage, and recharge energy reserves. A typical android usually only requires a few hours of rest mode for an average day's use, but due to the damage I sustained, my systems would benefit from a prolonged stasis, if that's--”

“Jesus Christ, stop yapping! Sleep as long you want, I don't give a shit!”

Ah, he had irritated him. Anderson really did not seem to care for thorough explanations. Though this seemed rather careless, he noted it for future reference.

“Thank you. Good night, Mr. Anderson.”

There was a mumbled “yeah, whatever” as the human walked away. He shut his eyes as he prepared to power down, only to hear the sound of foot steps approaching again.

“What the hell you doing?”

He opened his eyes to see Anderson, peering at him from around the corner of the hallway with an eye brow raised.

“You said I could enter rest mode,” he said patiently, though inwardly he was concerned. Hardly a few seconds had passed. Was Anderson suffering from early onset dementia?

“On your feet? The couch is right there.”

Oh. He understood now.

“It's all right. Androids are designed to remain upright like this, as to take up as little space as possible. I will not fall over.”

“That's not— _ugh_ , just take the damn couch! I don't wanna run into some Blair Witch shit if I get up for a midnight snack.”

He automatically ran a search for “Blair witch shit”, but as expected, it only came up with another error message. Not having access to the online database was going to be more troublesome than he initially thought, given Anderson's...colorful expressions.

Regardless, the context was clear enough, so he conceded and took a seat on the couch, looking over at the human expectantly. Was that better?

“You're just gonna...” He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head dismissively. “Okay, fuck it. Whatever.”

“Good night, Mr. Anderson,” he tried again, as the human retreated back down the hall.

The man didn't reply, only muttered something under his breath before roughly closing the door to his room. He probably didn't think the android could hear him, and/or probably didn't care, but it was easy to make out:

_“Fucking androids.”_


End file.
